


Meditations on Familiality

by Mertiya



Series: Two Bright-hairs and a Doctor [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Parentlock, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:04:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a birthday and a cake and Sherlock tries to come to terms with being called "Daddy".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meditations on Familiality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notthewhizkid](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=notthewhizkid).



> This is my attempt at a birthday present for my amazing friend/RP buddy notthewhizkid, who turns 18 today. Happy birthday, sweetie! I hope you like it, I'm honestly not sure where the idea came from. Other than 'birthday fic'.

            It’s light.  It was dark when Sherlock went to bed, and surely that can’t have been more than two minutes ago.  John had ordered him to bed in no uncertain terms, and Sherlock had gone, because he knew that tone of voice, but surely he can’t have slept that long.  He wasn’t even slightly tired (certainly he had been up for two days, but that was minor; the case was important).

            He hears the soft pad of feet outside his door.  “Daddy?” calls a small voice, and it is with a wave of irritation that Sherlock remembers that he has now been dubbed _Daddy_ , despite his protestations that he is not the child’s father (nor is John, but she does not seem likely to leave any time soon and John has been encouraging rather than discouraging her emotional entanglement with the two of them.)

            He considers telling her in no uncertain terms to go away, but he dreads the confrontation with John that will certainly follow.  Besides, he isn’t sleepy in the least, and he wasn’t doing anything, so it cannot rightly be said that she has disturbed him.  Therefore, it is with not particularly bad grace that Sherlock rises, stalks to the door, and opens it.

            The Child is standing outside.  John appears to have dressed her in a frilly lace nightdress which is ridiculously impractical and which has already displayed its impracticality by becoming covered in stains of what Sherlock immediately identifies as jam, sugar, and flour.  Not that Sherlock minds stains on his pajamas, or the Child’s, but it seems like the sort of thing that John would prefer to avoid.

            “Rhonwen, is he awake?” John’s voice calls up the stairs.

            _Rhonwen._   What an absurd name.  Welsh origin, meaning unclear; either “bright spear” or “bright hair”.  Naturally, John calls it _charming_.

             “Yes!” Rhonwen calls back.  “Come downstairs,” she begs.  As he was planning on doing so in any case, he accedes, though he does not take the proffered hand, but this does not seem to bother her overmuch.  She grabs the back of his dressing gown in her grubby hand and patters after him.

            Sherlock is planning on checking on an experiment he left in the living room, but the Child is clearly determined to take him into the kitchen, and John is probably waiting.  Sherlock rolls his eyes but lets her drag him past the desired experiment.  When he sees John smiling fondly at both of them, he suddenly doesn’t mind so much after all.

            There is a cake sitting on the kitchen table, which is not a surprise, although the word “cake” may be slightly optimistic for the lopsided creation which has been smeared in crumbly glory across one of Mrs. Hudson’s best plates.  _Oh lord.  How did John know?_

            Because this is clearly not coincidence.  Sherlock Holmes is not a man who believes in coincidence, and even if he did, it would be passing the bounds of probability for there to be an excited Child and some sort of cake-like concoction waiting for Sherlock precisely thirty-one years after the date of his birth.  Sherlock shoots John a death glare, but he is rewarded with an amused smile, and, once John has navigated his way around the table, a soft kiss on the cheek.

            “Happy birthday,” John says.  “I was just going to buy a cake, but Rhonwen was…very insistent.  It’s actually pretty good.”  If Sherlock were not so flabbergasted by this turn of events, he would have already noticed the slightly-sticky residue that John’s lips leave across his cheekbone.

            Sherlock makes a mental note that he will be murdering Mycroft at some point in the exceedingly near future, because surely there is no one else who could have alerted John to what he presumably saw as the importance of this particular date. 

            Meanwhile, the Child is bouncing up and down in front of him (there is really no other word for the jerky movements her entire body is performing), while holding out a plate on which she has placed an approximation of a slice of cake.  John chuckles, presumably at the expression on Sherlock’s face.  “I got you some new microscope slides,” he says.  “The expensive kind.  I figured you’d like those.  Rhonwen, ah, got you a cake.  You should try it.”

            At least John isn’t being sentimental.  If Sherlock _must_ receive a gift, high-quality microscope slides are close to the top of his list, although he must admit he can think of a few other things he might like just as well, but John would probably object to him mentioning them in front of the Child.  John’s sense of propriety can be so limiting at times.  He contents himself with pulling John near and murmuring throatily into his ear, “Perhaps, later, we can spend some time together alone?” John’s responding quiet whimper is exceedingly satisfactory.

            The Child is still proffering what appears to be a concoction of jam holding crumbs together, and there is clearly no escape.  With a defeated sigh, Sherlock takes the cake from her and tastes it.  It’s far too sweet, of course; the Child has put an inordinate amount of sugar in it, but all the same, it is reasonably edible.  John pinches his arm.  The Child is looking at him hopefully.  “It’s, er, very good.  Thank you, Rhonwen.”  That seems to have been the correct thing to say, because she squeals and throws her arms around his knees.  Sherlock, surrounded by John’s and the Child’s arms, is assaulted by a strange sense of… _warmth_.

            John’s lips nuzzle into Sherlock’s neck, and he can’t help but give vent to a quiet sigh.  He may dislike the very notion of birthdays, but if the formalities _must_ be observed, this is not so bad.  This is…acceptable.

            “I’ll get you more cake, Daddy!” the Child says quickly, and Sherlock realizes that somewhere in the middle of his reverie, he has finished the slice she gave him.  He feels John’s laughter against the side of his neck, and, before he can object, she is climbing back onto the chair, which rocks alarmingly (Oh.  Perhaps he shouldn’t have done that experiment; this may be why John keeps asking him to keep a record) and then deposits her on the ground with an alarming crash.

            John is at her side in an instant, and Sherlock sees as he switches into Doctor mode almost before she has had a chance to register what has happened.

            “Are you OK?” John inquires gently, shooting Sherlock a glare over his shoulder which suggests he is _quite_ aware of why the material integrity of the chair decided to give out.

            The Child opens her mouth, and Sherlock braces for a wail.  This is one of the major reasons he cannot stand children, but he moves toward her in any case.  John will have no reason to be any _more_ displeased with him.  The angle at which she struck the ground suggests no bones broken, but very probably a nasty scrape, and sure enough, when she sits up, her face puckered, there is a star-shaped bloody cut on her knee.

            She makes a soft little noise, and John says _shhhh_ comfortingly.  Sherlock is struck suddenly, forcibly, by how often people overlook John Watson, when he is really so very special (and Sherlock is very carefully not thinking about what this might mean for his choice of companions, the antisocial detective and the little girl who never used to speak).

            “Look, Daddy, it’s a star,” says the Child, who isn’t crying or wailing after all, but tracing the blood running down her knee with an awed finger.  That’s funny; wasn’t Sherlock holding his cake in his hand?  He appears to have dropped it.

            He touches the Child briefly on the head and when John stands up, hefting her into his arms and bringing all three of them into a tight embrace, Sherlock doesn’t pull away.


End file.
